Forty Years
by clair beaubien
Summary: REPOST: what really happened after Dean told Sam about hell. has no connection to my story By the Side of the Road


Season Four - Dean has told Sam about hell. Now what does Sam do?

Forty years.

Sam couldn't think of anything else. _Forty years Dean had endured _- Sam fought back a wave of nausea as sickening images of torture from every horror movie he'd ever seen tumbled through his brain like a hyped up slide show. And as horrifying as any image was that he created, what was more horrifying was realizing that if he knew the truth, he'd wish it had only been as hard for Dean as the graphic images in his head.

And Dean had endured it for forty years.

Dean was sitting on his bed, leafing through the phone book of all things. The TV was off, the radio was off, Sam was lying on his bed, and absolutely nothing else was going on. Outside it was dark. They'd pulled in here a couple hours after Dean's – Sam didn't know what to call it. _Confession_ seemed too harsh. _Revelation_ seemed too easy. _Talk_ was just too stupid. Whatever it was, afterward they'd gotten into the car and ended up here. Dinner hadn't appealed much to either of them, neither had hitting a bar, so here they were.

Sam wanted to say something, get Dean to talk, just to hear his voice, just to remind himself that Dean was alive and well and only a few inches out of reach. Because if he closed his eyes, if he started to drift off so that he didn't hear Dean breathe anymore, his heart jumped so hard in his chest it practically threw him off the bed.

"Looking for something in particular?" He asked Dean.

"No, just a little mindless diversion. TV wasn't really doing anything for me. But if you want to watch something, don't let me stop you." Dean sounded normal, he sounded fine. Just another night in another motel room. Sure, he sounded tired, but they'd had a hard few days and maybe telling Sam about hell had broken some tension inside of Dean. Maybe he'd sleep now without nightmares.

Sam wasn't sure _he'd_ ever sleep again.

"No, I'm not – no."

Worse than the bloody, horrific images of hell that were burned into Sam's brain now was the one clear image of sitting on the hood of the Impala – seeing Dean cry. Sam knew he wasn't good with that sort of thing, not when it was Dean. Stitch a wound, pop a joint back into place, laugh at a bad joke, Sam could do that for Dean. But Dean crying was so far out of Sam's skill range that he didn't know how to react. So he _hadn't_ reacted, he just waited, sitting next to Dean, until Dean wiped his eyes and cleared his throat and said they should get back on the road.

Then they drove silently together, the radio on low, Sam wracking his brain to figure out what he could for Dean, what he could possibly do or say, until Dean started tapping his thumb on the steering wheel in beat to the music on the radio and Sam figured the moment to do anything right then had passed.

"I'm going to go get some soda pop. You want some?" Sam sat up and reached for his sneakers. He needed some air, he needed to be somewhere Dean couldn't see him right now. He couldn't keep thinking about what Dean suffered and how he'd done nothing. He had to walk and breathe and get it out of his head.

"You're buying?" Dean asked. "Sure, get me a Pepsi, will you?"

"OK."

"It's cold out."

"Yeah. Be right back." Sam pulled his jacket on as he walked out of the motel room and shut the door behind. Once he was out on the sidewalk, alone in the cold air, he let out a long sigh and dug his hands into his eyes.

Dean had spent forty years trapped in the most gruesome nightmare nobody could imagine and still he was worried that Sam might be cold for the six minutes it would take him to get Pepsi out of the vending machine. Sam didn't deserve that; he didn't deserve any kindness or consideration or notice. He could spend the rest of his life doing everything possible for Dean and it would never be enough.

He looked through the front window of the room, through the vertical blinds. Dean was still reading the phone book. How could he be so calm? How could he just sit there? Sam couldn't breathe, he couldn't think, he was barely keeping his stomach where it belonged and he wasn't the one who'd been in hell. How could Dean behave like nothing was wrong? How was he keeping everything in place?

Forty years. Sam couldn't even comprehend a span of time that long. He remembered that Dad had been forty the year Sam was eleven and that was so _old_.

After a minute, he reminded himself he had to get moving, get the Pepsi and get back. If he took too long, Dean would be out looking for him, making sure he was okay. Like he hadn't spent forty years in torment because of Sam.

A few rooms past the Impala, the vending machine stood in the motel breezeway. One Pepsi, one Sierra Mist, and Sam walked back to their room. Forty years, four months equaled forty years. He couldn't keep his mind from working on that. One month was ten years. So one week was two and a half years. Seven days was thirty months. One day was four months. Twelve hours was two months. Six hours was one month. Three hours was two weeks. One hour was five days. Twelve minutes was twenty four hours. One minute was two hours.

So for the couple of hours or so Sam had spent watching Indiana Jones, Dean had spent two weeks being butchered, over and over and over again.

The world suddenly spun out of focus and Sam had to sit on the hood of the car to stay upright. The pop bottles dropped out of his hands onto the sidewalk and he crossed his arms over his stomach. He felt nauseous and panicky and like his heart was going to fall right out of his chest. Nothing he had ever suffered, ever, in his entire lifetime was as bad as one minute of what Dean suffered in hell and Sam hadn't done a single thing for him. He couldn't even comfort him after he finally told him about hell. He'd hardly been able to say a single word to him.

The pain and grief and guilt flared up and Sam bowed under the weight of it. Dean had always been there for him. From Sam's earliest memories, Dean was there. With food and bandages and fighting over what to watch on TV, clean clothes, dirty magazines, advice and comfort and making sure Sam was okay whether he wanted it or not. And the one time, the _one_ time Dean opened up to Sam, he couldn't so much as put his hand on Dean's shoulder to let him know he wasn't alone.

"Sam?" Dean was there in front of him so suddenly, Sam was confused. How did he get out of the motel room so fast, and without Sam hearing him? "What is it? What happened?" Dean shoved Sam's hands out of the way and pulled his jacket open. Looking for blood, for wounds. "Are you all right? Are you hurt?"

"I – I couldn't breathe -."

And the hands that were pressing his diaphragm moved to check his ribs and his sternum, then they went to his face and with a gentler urgency Dean lifted Sam's head to check his neck.

"Why? What?"

_What?_ Sam almost laughed out loud. How could Dean ask that? What did it matter? What did anything about Sam matter?

"Sammy – talk to me. What's going on?" Dean sounded concerned. He _was_ concerned. For Sam.

"_Dean_ – after what you told me – how can you – ?"

Dean's expression changed like he'd been wounded himself. He pulled his hands away from Sam and took a step back.

"You don't want me touching you."

"_No_. Dean – no." Sam reached out and grabbed Dean's shoulder before he could move any farther away. He knew he grabbed the shoulder with Castiel's hand print and he knew he was holding on so tight he had to be hurting Dean, but he couldn't make his hand relax. "Dean – after what you told me – how can you care anything about me? About anything that happens to me? How -." But that sounded too whiny and too much about Sam. And nothing ever needed to be about him again.

"What – you think I've changed that much?" It should've been a sarcastic question, but it wasn't. Dean was serious. "You think I – don't – can't – care about you anymore? You think I lost that much of myself?"

"No – Dean – _no._ I think you _shouldn't_ care about me. I think I don't _deserve_ it. What you suffered – what you went through – while I was up here -."

"Drunk and suicidal?" Dean asked. He stared straight into Sam's eyes. "You think you didn't suffer too?"

"I think you should stop worrying about me." Sam said, his voice flat and slow. "After what you went through, I think you should never worry about me again."

"Oh, I'll get right on that." Dean snapped back. His voice was hard but the hand he wrapped around Sam's wrist at his shoulder was gentle. "Anything else? You want me to stop being right handed? Maybe change the color of my eyes?"

"Stop being sarcastic."

"Then stop being stupid. Let's get back in the room. I'm freezing out here."

"Dean -."

"_What_?"

"I want to help you."

That made Dean pause, at least a little bit. He let go of Sam's wrist and bent down to retrieve the fallen pop bottles.

"I know you want to help. I know you do. But I don't know what to tell you, Sammy. These memories are never going away. The nightmares will probably never go away. These feelings -." He broke off; he probably didn't want a repeat of the roadside talk. He pushed the bottle of Sierra Mist into Sam's hand. "There's nothing you can do, Sam."

"There has to be." Sam insisted. He knew there had to be something, anything, he could do. "Just tell me what you need. Tell me what you want."

"I want you to come back inside."

"_Dean_ – please. Just – _please._" Sam had learned early on his life that that was the one word that would always get Dean to cave to whatever Sam wanted. So Sam hardly ever used it. But it worked again this time too; he saw the change in Dean's eyes, from annoyed to understanding.

"What I want? You want to know what I want?" Dean's voice had a strange edge to it; he could be building up to anguish or rage and until he got there, it was hard to tell. But he pulled Sam's jacket back together with his free hand and tugged a little on one of the buttons. He looked up into Sam's eyes.

"What I want is for you not to hate me, not to think less of me. I want you to look at me and not see a monster."

"A _monster_? Dean – how could you think -?" But Dean didn't let him finish.

"I want to still be your big brother, somebody you look up to. Somebody you _want_ to look up to. When I wake up from a nightmare, I want you to be there, you don't have to do anything, you don't have to say anything. Just – just say you're still my brother."

This, _this_ was what Dean wanted? The tension and despair inside of Sam flaked away. All the horrible things Dean had suffered, all the heroic things Sam was ready and willing to offer up for him, and what Dean needed was to _be_ needed, to still be Dean in Sam's world. The way he was looking at Sam, how desperate he sounded, Dean really didn't know that everything he wanted was everything he already had

"You think you can get rid of me that easy?" Sam asked. He had the feeling that an affectionately sarcastic answer was the better way to go than the bone crushing bear hug he wanted to wrap around Dean. "Those memories aren't going to go away? Well, guess what? Neither am I. I hate to break it to you, man, but you're stuck with me. Stuck with your pain in the ass little brother who apparently can't even leave the room for a Pepsi without needing his big brother to make sure he gets home safe again."

Dean let out a huff of annoyance. "I guess some things never change," he groused, but Sam could see the relief in his face. "Can we go in now? You might have grabbed your jacket on the way out but I left mine inside and it's freaking freezing out here."

"I dare you to say that five times fast." Sam smiled and still briefly considered that hug.

Dean rolled his eyes and turned back to their motel room, muttering "_freakingfreezing, freakingfreezing, freakingfreezing, freakingfreezing, freakingfreezing, _"

"Hey, Dean?" Sam stopped him with a hand on his shoulder and Dean turned around. "Thanks for coming out to check on me. I – uh – I'm sorry I dropped your Pepsi."

"You need to eat. We'll leave the pop in fridge and go get some dinner. I don't know about you, but I'm starving. I'll get my stuff and close up the room."

Sam watched Dean walk away, a little more energy, a little more life in his step. Maybe the memories would never go away, but like Sam said, neither would he.

"Some things will _never_ change." He promised.

The end.


End file.
